WATSON'S 


BEAUT  SNOW 


••I]   P  OEMS 


fa,.  - 
;ly  Wril- 


as  who  read 

little  poem 

,'  immediately 

;  only  attracted 

c    beauty,    but 

...d  disputed  an- 

d  that  man  claimed 

ian  whose  degraded 

aer  sisters,  and  whose 

.  od  in  verse,  and  again  tbe 

•  Bohemian  "  ti^d  written  it  on 

t-ur  of  tut      .uient.    It  seemed  destined  to  be 

one  of  those  melancholy  songs  which  wander  about 

the  world,  which  go  from  mouth  to  moufh,  and 

which,  beautimi  as  they  are,  bring  no  recognition  to 

him  who  has  made   them.    They  live,  as  *n  true 

1 


nv  '8333^  -W  'WAi 


J0  •am 


•95  iudv  - 


«-oa  v 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW, 


OTHER    POEMS 


J     W.    WATSON 


T 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T  U  R  N  E  R     IJ  R  O  T  H  K  R  S     &     CO., 
No.  808   CHESTNUT   STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 
TURNER   BROTHERS   &   CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STACK 
ANNEX 

P 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


A  portion  of  these  poems  have  already  been  pub 
lished  j    those    marked  thus  *  in    Harper '.$•,  and  those 

marked^    in    Leslies   Paper. 

4 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BEAUTIFUL    SNOW.* 7 

THE    SUNLIGHT  IX   HER    HAIR.* 12 

NO   LETTER 16 

A    MILLION,    ALL    IN    GOLD 20 

DEATH'S    CARRIAGE    STOPS    THE   WAY 25 

MY   PIPE 3o 

DEAD 36 

THE    SAILING    OE    THE    YACHTS 42 

"RING   DOWN   THE   DROP— I   CANNOT  PLAY."* 46 

THE    OLDEST'    PAUPER   ON   THE   TOWN.* 50 

DROWN  ED  ! 55 

THE    SKATERS.* 61 

GIVE   ME   DRINK. f 68 

"IT  WILL  ALL    HE   RIGHT  IN   THE   MORNING."! 72 

GOD   BLESS  YOUR    BEAUTIFUL    HAND. 1 75 

FARMER    BROWN. t 78 

THE    PATTER    OK     LITTLE    EEEI'.f 83 

OLD    NEWS 87 

MISSING:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM    SMITH.* 94 

1  *  •> 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

/^Vll!    the  snow,   the  beautiful  snow, 

Filling  the   sky   and  the   earth  below ; 
Over  the   house-tops,    over   the   street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet ; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming   along. 

Beautiful   snow  !    it  can   do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss   a   fair  lady's   cheek ; 
Clinging  to  lips   in   a   frolicsome    freak. 
Beautiful   snow,   from   the   heavens   above, 
Pure   as   an   an^el    and   fickle   as   love  ! 

o 

Oh  !    the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  thev  go  ! 


8  BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 
It     lights     up     the     face     and     it     sparkles      the 

eye; 

And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is   alive,   and  its  heart  in   a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song  ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by — 
Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow  : 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW.  9 

Snow   so  pure  when  it  falls   from  the  sky, 

To    be    trampled    in    mud    by    the    crowd    rushing 

by  ; 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of 

feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible    filth  in  the   street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow — but  I  fell : 

Fell,     like     the     snow-flakes,     from     heaven  —  to 

hell : 

Fell,   to  be  tramped   as  the   filth  of  the  street : 
Fell,  to  be  scoffed,   to  be  spit  on  and  beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 

Selling  my  soul   to   whoever  would  buy, 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the   dead. 
Merciful  God  !    have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  yet  I  was  once   like  this  beautiful    snow  ! 


10  BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved    for  my  innocent   grace — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 

God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will   take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There    is    nothing   that's    pure    but    the    beautiful 
snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would   be,  when    the  night  comes 

again, 
If    the    snow    and    the    ice    struck    my    desperate 

brain  ! 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW.  II 

Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone 

Too  wicked  for  prayer,   too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down  ; 
To  lie  and    to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 
With  a  bed   and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful   snow  ! 


THE    SUNLIGHT    IN    HER    HAIR. 


T 


^HERE'S    an  old    stone   house,   on   a  lonely 

street — 

A  house  of  a  sombre  hue — 
And  day  by  day,  for  forty  years, 

I've  passed  within  its  view ; 
A  house  of  a  dead  and  mouldy  state — 
The  cast-off  shell  of  the   rich  and  great — 

It  frowns  on  the  street,  through  its   dingy  paint, 

In  a  consequential  way ; 
Seeming  to  shrink  from  the  summer  air 
And  the  yellow  sunlight's  play. 

But  I  watch  alone  the  one  bright  spot 

On  those  dingy,  sombre  walls, 
Where  a  woman  sits  at  her  daily  toil, 

And  the  yellow  sunlight  falls. 
12 


THE    SUNLIGHT  IN  HER   HAIR.  13 

I   have  watched  that  window  for  forty  years, 
Through    the   breaking   of  smiles    and    the    falling 

of  tears : 

I    have    watched    the    jewel    my    heart    has    en 
shrined, 

And  my  daily  prayers  bless  ; 
I     have    mingled     her    name    with    my    nightly 

dreams — 
Fair  Josephine  Van  Ness. 

And  never,   in  all  these  long,   long  years, 

Have  I   spoken  to  Josephine, 
But  I  watch  the  sunlight  play  in  her  hair 

And  the  shadows  pass  between  ; 
And  I   muse  on  the   change    that  time  will   bring 
To  every  fair  and  beautiful  thing  ; 

For  when  first  the  sunlight  fell  on  her  hair 

It  played   with   each  golden  braid  ; 
But  the  gold  has  gone,   and  the  gathered  locks 

Are  with  lines  of  silver  laid. 
2 


14  THE   SUNLIGHT  IN  HER   HAIR. 

I  never  have  spoken  to  Josephine, 

Though  I've  loved  her  long  and  well ; 
But  the  dreams  I  have   dreamed  of  the  coming 

time 

Are  more  than  my  heart  can   tell. 
I   have  promised  myself  from  day  to  day, 
Till    my    step    has    grown    old    and    my    hair    has 

grown  gray, 
That    when    fortune    shall    favor    my    efforts    to 

rise, 

Dear  Josephine  shall  share, 
And  the  dim  old  house  shall  be  bright  again 
With  the  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

She  may  have  grown  old  to  other  eyes — 

To  mine  she  is  ever  the  same, 
Like   a  glorious  picture  mellowed  by  time, 

And  set  in  an  oaken  frame. 
For  many  and  many  a  toilsome  year 
I  lingered  in  passion,   or  shivered  in  fear, 


THE    SUNLIGHT  IN  HER   HAIR.  15 

Lest  some  who  were  greater  or  richer  than  I 

Should  mark  the  yellow  sheen 
Of  the  sunlight  dancing  in  her  hair, 

And  woo  my  Josephine. 

But  the  years  have  passed  us,   one  by  one, 

And  never  a  wooer  there  came  ; 
They  may  have  slighted  the  toiling  girl, 

But  I  love  her   just  the  same. 
And  every  da}'   I  will  pass  the  street, 
Though  she  hears  not  the  sound  of  my  lingering 

feet ; 
And  every  day,  through  the  winter's  snow, 

And  summer's  waving  green, 
I  will  look  at  the  window,  and  wait  for  the  time 
I  can  speak  to  Josephine. 


NO    LETTER. 

/^VH  HOPE!    thou  stolid  tenant  of 

Each  wayworn  wanderer's  worldly  breast, 
Can  no  alarms  before  thy  gate 

Erect  once  more  thy  warrior  crest? 
Hath  love  and  fortune,   long  deferred, 

So  palsied  all  thy  limbs  of  steel 
That  life  hath  nothing  in  its  creed 

To  rouse  thee  up  for  woe  or  weal? 

With  listless  feet  and  vacant  air, 

On  distant  shores  I  mark  my  round, 

And  scan  with  careless  eye  the  crowds 
I  meet  on  unfamiliar  ground. 

Not  gaining  by  my  worldly  lore, 
Not   profiting  by  stranger   hands, 

16 


NO   LETTER. 

My   heart   goes  back  through   weary   miles 
To  clasp  the  love  of  other  lands. 

One  daily  pilgrimage   I   tread, 

The  Mecca  of  my  stolid   hope, 
One   path   in   utter  darkness  veiled, 

With  hands  outstretched,    I   daily   grope. 
Before   a  portal,   prison  barred, 

My   shibboleth  I   daily   sum, 
And  watch   a  youth   hold    countless   worlds 

Between  a  finger  and  a  thumb. 

I   watch   with   eager  eyes   his   face, 

On  which  unmeaning  silence  broods, 
Bent  o'er  the   eloquence  of  man 

In   all   his   wondrous   human    moods. 
I   chafe   when,   like   some   mere   machine, 

On  Beauty's   missive  falls  his  touch, 
And  wonder  why   electric  force 

Should   not  unloose   the   vampyre   clutch. 


1 8  NO  LETTER. 

Life,  love  and  death,  beneath  his  hand, 

Run  glib  and  facile  to  and  fro ; 
Stark,   staring  ruin,   sudden   wealth, 

Like  flashing  meteors  come  and  go. 
The  fierce  defiance,  greed  of  gold, 

The  cry  for  mercy — -softly  cried — 
And  one  faint,  wandering  line  from  him 

Who  on  the  field  of  battle  died. 

My  turn  !     In  one  brief  second's  thought 

I  span  the  arc  of  changing  years ; 
My  heart  goes  out  through  boundless  space, 

With  choking,  throbbing  hopes  and  fears. 
I  think  of  one  who,   months  before, 

Hung  sobbing  on  my  burning   breast, 
Whose  words  still  linger  on  my  ear : 

"My  own:    my  heart's  beloved,  my  best!" 

I  think  of  how,  through  weary  days, 
Fve  stood,  as  now,  before  the  gate, 


NO   LETTER.  19 

And  watched  the  human  form  within, 

Machine-like,   serve  the  crowds  that  wait : 

I  think  how,   at  the  whispered  name, 
His  hand  went   deftly  to  the  spot 

Where  life  and  death,   and  love  and  hate 
In  waiting  lay — but  mine  was  not. 

All  this  !  but  as  the  lightning's  flash 

Before  my  eyes  a  missive  lay  ; 
A  stranger  hand — the  seal  unknown — • 

o 

What  can  this  fearsome  letter  say? 
God,   give  me  but  a  moment's  strength  ! 

Keep  still,   my  heart — the  seals  are  torn, 
One  line  alone,  the  rest  is  dark — 

"  She  died  at  one  o'clock  this  morn  !': 


A    MILLION,    ALL    IN    GOLD! 

r  I  AHE  gallant  ship  went  down  at  sea, 

Went  down  in  the  shrieking  wind — 
Went  down  with  a  hundred  souls  on  board, 

And  left  no  trace  behind. 
She  was  dashing — dashing  grandly  on 

Where  the  storm-swept  waters  rolled  ; 
Her  freight  was  a  hundred  beating  hearts, 

And  a  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  night  was  dark  as  a  soul  Condemned, 
And  the  scream  of  the  gale,  despair. 

The  shivering  crowds  that  clung  to  the  shrouds 
Were  raising  their  voices  in  prayer. 

She  rolled  in  the  dreadful  trough  of  the  sea, 
And  their  grip  was  a  desperate   hold, 

20 


A    MILLION,  ALL    IN   GOLD!  2 

As  the  ship  went  down  with  a  trembling   moan, 
And  a  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  darkness  closed  on  their  one  wild  dirge, 

And  the  lightning  gave  one  glare 
On  the  spot  where  a  group  of  ghost-like  eyes 

Were  fixed  in  a  deathly  stare  ! 
But  the  morrow's  sun  shall  kiss  the  place 

AVhere  lie  in  the  waters  cold, 
A  hundred  corses,   stark  and    stiff, 

And  a  million — all   in  gold. 

A  thousand  weary  miles  away 

Is  a  man  with   silvery  hair, 
Who  bends  o'er   the  desk  in  his  counting-room, 

With  a  pale  and   frightened  air. 
He  grasps  the  sheet  that  brought  the  news 

In  a  strong,   convulsive  hold, 
And  groans,   "  O  God,  the  ship  is  lost, 

With  a  million — all  in   <rold  !" 


22  A   MILLION,  ALL   IN   GOLD! 

Where  flash  the  jewels  in  the  light, 

And  the  music's  master-tone, 
With  its  rich,  voluptuous,  softening  phrase, 

Makes  heart  and  soul  its  own, 
A  \voman  sits,  superbly  fair, 

And  hears  the  story  told ; 
She  heaves  a  sigh  for  the   glorious  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

A  mother  gropes  at  her  daily  toil 

Till  her  fingers  cramp  with  pain, 
But  she  knows  that  her  days  of  care  will  cease 

When   her  boy  shall  come  again ; 
But  now  her  task  will  never  be  done 

Till  she  lies  in  the  churchyard  mould ; 
Her  heart  went  down  with  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  mariner's  wife  has  kissed   her  babe 
And    hushed  it  with  a  soncj — 


A    MILLION,  ALL    IN   GOLD  I  23 

A  song  of   hope    and  the  coming  time 

She  has  taught  her  heart  so  long. 
She  never  will  sing  that  song  again, 

For  the  sailor  stout  and    hold 
Went  down  in  the  sea,   with  the  foundered  ship, 

And   the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  eyes 

Shall  read  of  the  missing  sail, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  ears 

Shall    listen  to  the  tale. 
And  all  that  careless,   listening   crowd, 

The  young,   the  gay,  the  old, 
Shall  speak  of  the  fate  of  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all   in   gold  ! 

There  are  other  eyes  and  other  ears 
Than  that  careless,  listening  crowd — 

Eyes  that  are  weeping  endless  tears, 
And  hearts  that  cry  aloud  ! 


24  A   MILLION,  ALL   IN   GOLD! 

Hearts  that  shall  cry  for  evermore, 
While  the  bells  of  life  are  tolled, 

For  the  glorious  ship  that  went  to  sea, 
With  a  million — all  in  gold  ! 


DEATH'S    CARRIAGE    STOPS    THE 
WAY. 

1\  /TY  Lady  Clara,  rich  in  grace, 

And   rich   in   all   the   charm   of  face, 

Has   marked   her  course  upon  life's  way 
With  bold,   imperious,   haughty   sway. 

She   walks   embodied  Fashion's  queen, 
The   bowing  ranks   of  life  between. 

She   scorns  the   earth,   rebukes  the   sky 
With   spurning  tread   and  glancing  eye. 

And  thus   my   lady   goes   her  way, 
Still   stern   and  cold   with   ever      da. 


26        DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT. 

My  lady,   lapped   in  luscious  ease, 
With  all  appliances  to  please, 

Drove  through  the  crowd  that  stood  amaze 
Behind  her  team  of  dappled  grays ; 

Not  thankful  for  the  summer  air, 
But  angered  at  the  vulgar  stare. 

She  sat  in  state  to  beauty  blind, 
And   stately  footmen   clung  behind, 

While  prudent  hands  her  horses  guide ; 
All  this  to  feed  my  lady's  pride. 

But  something  checks  my  lady's  course ; 
Amid  the  crush  of  man  and  horse, 

Her  carriage  stands  for  moments  still, 
Against  her  fierce  commanding  will. 


DEATH'S    CARRIAGE    STOPS    THE    WAT. 

"Go   on!"   she  cried  with  kindling  face; 
Who  dares  to   stop   my   lady's  pace? 

"  Go  on  !"   she   cried,   yet  pranced  each  gray, 
Without  proceeding  on  its  way. 

"Go  on!''   once   more   she   cries  in  wrath; 
"What  minion   dares  to  stop   my  path?" 

Then   hears   her  placid  coachman  say, 
"  Death's  carriage,   lady,   stops  the  way." 

Why   grows   my  lady  sudden    pale? 
Why   do   her  stern   commandings  fail? 

Among  the  guests  who   pass   her  door, 
Has   she   ne'er  heard  that  name  before? 

Nay  !    yes,   full  well   she   knows  the   name 
Of  him   who  once  in  welcome  came, 


28       DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT. 

Passed  in  her  loveless,  wedded   door, 
And  loosed  the  fetters  that  she  wore. 

But  now  the  mention  made  her  start, 
And  checked  the  life-blood  in  her  heart. 

Death's  carriage  stops  my  lady's  way, 
While  smiled  the  gorgeous  summer  day ! 

Her  carriage  moves,  the  moments  fly, 
And  man  and  horse  rush  swiftly  by, 

But  still  my  lady's  stately  pace 
Keeps  time  with  all    her  stately  grace, 

Until   before    her   portal    stays 

Her    stately  team  of  prancing  grays, 

And    stately  footmen,   from    their    height, 
Descend   to    see    my  lady  light. 


DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT.       29 

Why  comes    she  not?     With  wondering    stare, 
In    silence,   gaze    the    lackeys  where 

The   open    door    invites    approach 
To    help    my  lady  from    her    coach. 

At   length,   one  bolder   than    the    rest, 
Stooped    low,  for   once,  his    stately  crest, 

And    peering    to    the    cushioned    deeps, 
lie  whispered  soft,    "  My  lady  sleeps  !" 

She    sleeps,  ay,   sleeps    the    sleep  of  death ; 
His   touch   has   chilled    her  stately  breath ; 

His,  the   one   power    that    dared   to    stay 
My  lady's   carriage   on  its  way. 


MY    PIPE. 

TT  7HAT!  sell  my  pipe,   sir?     By  old  Jove! 
Ha !    ha !    excuse  my  ill-seemed  mirth. 
Why,  boy,   to  get  that  pipe  I  clove 

A  trooper  to  his  saddle-girth ! 
What's  that?     Why,  more  than  you  have  done, 

My  white-faced  lad,   or  you  will  do, 
If  you  but  end  as  you've  begun  : 

Mind  what  I  tell  you,   lad,   'tis  true  ! 

Put  up  your  money  ;  this  old  pipe 
May  be,  as  you  have  said,  a  gem  : 

Whoever  loosens  death's  last  gripe 
Will  find  it  here,  a  prize  to  them. 

A  beauty!    yes  indeed,   a  pearl! 

See   how  the  rich   brown  color   glows ; 

so 


MT  PIPE.  31 

The   blushes  of   a  pretty  girl, 

The  heart's  core  of  the  deep  red  rose  ! 

Pshaw  !    sell    my   pipe  !   the  thing's   absurd  ! 

My  silver-lipped,   my  amber-tipped  ! 
See   here,   my  lad,   perhaps  you've   heard 

About  a  pack  of  fellows  whipped 
At  Gettysburg?     Well,   I   was  there, 

Where  showers  of  ball  ploughed  up  the  ground 
Beneath  the  footsteps  of  my  mare, 

Who  challenged  death  at  every  bound  ! 

Up  came  an  order  from  our  chief 

To  take  a  belching  battery  nigh  : 
Our  captain's  words  were  sharp  and  brief, 

"Forward!    which   of  ye   fears  to   die?" 
Like   one  united   mass  we   sprang 

O'er  abattis  :  the  works  were  won  ; 
With   one  wild   shout  the   hillside  rang, 

And   then  we  spiked  each  murderous  gun  ! 


32  MT  PIPE. 

Just  then  a  cloud  of  horsemen  rushed 

Upon  our  rear  like  some  fierce  gust : 
By  very  count  they  should    have  crushed 

Our  little  band  into  the  dust. 
Full  five  to  one  the  squadron  came  ; 

Thank  God  !   we  knew  not  how  to  fly, 
For,   I'll  be  sworn,   each  felt  the  same, 

As  men  who  did  not  fear  to  die. 

Wild  was  the  crash  ;   the  shrieks,   the  yells, 

The  screaming  of  the  frightened  steeds  ! 
It  seemed  as  though  a  score  of  hells 

Had  loosed  their  fiends  for  bloody  deeds  ! 
Each  man  of  all  our  little  band 

Fought  like  a  hundred   men  in  one, 
Slashing  his  foes  on   either  hand, 

As  though  'twere  but  a  bit  of  fun. 

At  last,  with  half  our  comrades  slain, 
We  beat  the   foemen  wildly  back, 


MT  PIPE.  33 

And   fiercely   over  hill   and  plain 

We   smote  them   on  their  flying   track. 

My   arm   was   hardened   steel  that  day 
From   shoulder  to  my   sword's  red  tip  ; 

But   still,   no  blood  was  in  the  fray 
Of   mine,    save  from   my  bitten  lip. 

But   I    had   seen  my  brother  fall — 

Hewed   down  by  one   great,   giant  blow  : 
The   sight   had   turned   my  blood  to   gall, 

And   almost  checked   its  living  flow. 
I  bent  my   mare's  long  reaching  stride 

On   every   flying  wretch   I   scanned, 
Sworn   that  no   spot  on   earth   should   hide 

The   murderer  from   my  vengeful   hand. 

The   night  was   closing   in    around, 

With  just  enough   of  light  to   see, 
When   suddenly   I   heard   the   sound 

Of   clattering   hoofs   not   far  from   me. 

O 

c 


34  MY  PIPE. 

I  turned  my  mare,   and   stood  on  guard, 

My  ready  sabre  on  my  knee ; 
My  listening  heart  beat  quick  and  hard, 

For  something  whispered,   "This  is  he!" 

I  knew  him  at  our  horses'  length, 

Though  but  a  glimpse  I  had  before — 
His  fierce,  black  eye,  his  size  and  strength, 

His  hands  all  smeared  with  blackened  gore ; 
And  in  his  tightly  clenched  teeth 

He  held  this  pipe  with  mocking  grin — 
A  grin  that  hid  a  fiend  beneath  ; 

A  murderous  fiend  there  lurked  within. 

He  stretched  his  head,   with  straining  eyes, 
Thinking  my  silent  form   a  friend  : 

I   marked  him  for  a  certain  prize, 
And  grasped  my  sabre  for  the  end. 

Just  then  he  thrust  his  cursed  face 
Far  forward  from  his  saddle-bow, 


MT  PIPE.  35 

And  \vith  a  puff  lit  all  the   place, 
And  knew  me  for   his  deadly  foe. 

But  ere  his  horse  could   backward  spring, 

I  clutched  this  pipe  with  fiercest  hate ; 
Then,   with  one  quick  and  desperate  swing, 

My  good  sword   fell — alas  !    too  late  ! 
He  charged,   and,   in  his  fearful   haste, 

He  only  took  my  bridle-arm  ; 
I   cut  him,  cleanly,  to  his  waist: — 

An  arm  the  less,  boy,  that's  no  harm  ! 

So  that's  the  way   my   pipe  was   won. 

Now,   do  you  think   I'd  sell   my   prize  ! 
Why,   all  the  gold  beneath   the  sun 

Would   not  so   fill   my  loving  eyes. 
I   kiss  its  bowl   for   memory's   sake — 

The   memory  of  my  brother  Steve ; 
It's  presence  keeps  the   thought   awake 

Of  him   I   slew  that  summer  eve. 


DEAD! 

OTEADY,  boys,   steady! 

Keep  your  arms  ready  ! 

God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 
Don't  let  me  be  taken  : 

I'd  rather  awaken 
To-morrow  in — no   matter  where — 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hold  over  there. 

Step  slowly  ! 

Speak  lowly  ! 

These  rocks  may  have  life. 

Lay  me  down  in  this  hollow ; 

We  are  out  of  the  strife. 

By  heavens  !  these  fellows  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 

3G 


DEAD!  37 

No  !     No    surgeon    for    me,    he    can    give    me    no 

aid  ; 

The  surgeon  I   want  is  a  pickaxe  and  spade. 
What,     Morris,     a     tear?      why     shame     on     you 

man  ! 

I  thought  you  a  hero  ;  but  since  you've  began 
To  whimper  and  cry,  like  a  girl  in  her  teens, 
By  George  !  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  it 

means  ! 

Well  !     well  !     I     am    rough ;     'tis     a    very    rough 

school, 

This  life  of  a  trooper,  but  yet  I'm  no  fool  ! 
I  know  a  brave  man,   and   a  friend  from  a  foe, 
And,  boys,  that   you  love  me  I   certainly  know. 

But  wasn't  it  grand, 
When    they  came    down    the    hill,   over    slou<rhin£f 

•/  O  & 

and    sand? 

But  we  stood — did  we  not? — like  immovable  rock, 
Unheeding    their  balls  and  repelling  their  shock. 

4 


38  DEAD! 

Did   you  mind  the  loud  cry, 

When,    as  turning  to  fly, 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them,  determined  to  die? 

Oh  !   wasn't  it  grand  ! 

God    help    the    poor    wretches    that    fell    in    that 

fight; 

No  time  was  there  given  for  prayer  or  for  flight : 
They    fell    by   the    score    in    the    crash,    hand    to 

hand, 
And  they  mingled   their  blood  with  the  sloughing 

and  sand. 

Huzza  ! 
Great     heavens !     this     bullet-hole     gapes    like    a 

grave ; 

A  curse  on  the  aim  of  that  villainous  knave  ! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away? 
Pray  ! 

Pray! 


DEAD!  39 

Thy    kingdom     come,     thy    \vill — why    don't    you 

proceed? 
Can't   you    see    I    am    dying?     Great    God,    how  I 

bleed  ! 
Ebbing   away  ! 

Ebbing  away  ! 

The  light  of  the   day 
Is  turning  to  gray. 

Pray  !   pray  ! 
And     forgive     us     our     trespasses  —  tell     me     the 

rest 
While  I  stanch    the    hot    blood    from    this    hole    in 

my  breast. 
Say  something    to    smooth    the    rough    road    I    am 

bound  ; 

I  am  galloping   fast  over  dangerous  ground. 
Do  you  think  the  good  Master  above  will — Pray  ! 

pray  ! 
Can't     you     see     how    my     life-blood     is     ebbing 

away  ? 


40  DEAD ! 

Here,     Morris,     old     fellow,     get     hold     of     my 

hand  ; 
And,     Wilson,     my      comrade  —  Oh!      wasn't      it 

grand 

When   they  came    down    the    hill,  like  a  thunder- 
charged  cloud, 
And  were    scattered    like  mist   by  our  brave    little 

crowd? 
Where's  Wilson?     My  comrade,  here,  stoop  down 

your  head, 
Can't   you    say  a  short   prayer   for   the    dying — or 

dead? 
Christ,  God,  who  died   for  sinners  all, 

Hear  thou  this  suppliant  wanderer's  cry, 
Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sparrow  fall, 

Unheeded  by  thy  gracious  eye. 
Throw  wide  the  gates  to  let  him  in, 

And  take  him  pleading,  to  thine  arms, 
Forgive,  O  Lord,   his  lifelong  sin, 

And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms. 


DEAD!  41 

God    bless    you,    my    comrade,    for    singing    that 

hymn  ; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  when  my  sight    has  grown 

dim. 
I    am    dying — bend    down,  till    I    touch    you    once 

more — 
Don't    forget    me,    old    fellow — God    prosper    this 

war  ! 

Confusion   to  foes,  but — keep  hold  of  my  hand — 
But  pray  that  peace  comes  to  a  prosperous  land ! 

4* 


THE    SAILING    OF    THE    YACHTS 

T  TP  pennon — heave  the  deep-sea  lead; 

Our  course  lies  to  the  sun  : 
God's  grace  to  each  stout  mariner, 

Until  the  strife  be  done. 
Between  us  and  the  restless  waves 

An  inch  of  plank  stands  guard ; 
White-bearded,  and  with  threatening  moans, 

They  follow  swift  and  hard. 

With  three  proud  colors  in  the  air — 

The  red,  the  white,  the  blue — 
Three  tiny  vessels,  trusting  God, 

Away  to  eastward  flew. 
Stout  hearts  looked  forward  on  the  path, 

Nor  dreamed  mischance  could    be, 

42 


THE   SAILING    OF    THE    YACHTS.  43 


Such  faith  had  each  bold  seaman  in 


These  graces  of  the  sea. 


Through  blinding  snow  and  cutting  wind, 

In  dreary  winter-time, 
They  swept  along  the  trackless  deep 

Like  some  fierce  Norseman's  rhyme. 
They  sped   as  speeds  the  wild  sea-bird 

When  bursts  the  tempest  wind  ; 
They  sped  as  speeds  the  swift  narwhale, 

And  leave  the  waves  behind. 

Sweeps  down  the  icy  northern  blast 

Along  their  watery  course, 
Yet  never  dreams  the   seaman  bold 

Of   shipwreck   or  of   loss. 
His  wishful  eye   is  fondly  bent 

Toward  an   alien  shore, 
And  watchful    for   each   offering   gale 

To  haste  the  journey  o'er. 


44  THE   SAILING    OF   THE    YACHTS. 

Speed  on,  ye  tiny  winged    barks, 

By  Yankee  seamen  manned, 
And  bear  glad  news  through  waves  and  wind 

To  yon  proud  Eastern  land. 
Show  them  the  blood  from  whence  ye  sprang 

Has  in  your  keeping  throve, 
And  that  a  native  of  your  land 

Is  one  remove  from  Jove. 

Show  them  that  when  your  manhood  wills, 

No  winds  can  stop  the  way ; 
That  angry  waves  but  speed  you  on, 

By  darkness  or  by  day. 
Show  them  that  this  same  dauntless  will 

That  bore  you  to  their  shore, 
Within  the  land  you  left  behind 

Lives  in  a  million  more. 

% 

Show  them  that  through  our  woeful  pains 
Still  throbbed  the   nation's   heart ; 


THE    SAILING    OF   THE    YACHTS.  45 

That  sword  and    bayonet  has  not 

Yet  killed  the  nation's  art. 
Show  them  that  through  the  deadly  strife 

That  rent  us  to  the  core, 
We  still   had  men   enough  to   wield 

The   hammer  and   the   saw. 

So  be  your  mission  one   of  joy 

To   all  the  human  race  ; 
And  hands  that  welcome  you  shall  be 

The  hands  of  courtly  grace. 
So  shall  your  presence  in  the  East 

Untie   some  Gordian  knots, 
And  make  the  song  of  songs  to  be 

The   "Sailing  of  the  Yachts." 


"RING   DOWN    THE    DROP  — I  CAN 
NOT    PLAY." 

/~^VH  !    painted  gauds  and  mimic  scenes, 

And   pompous  trick  that  nothing  means  ! 
Oh  !    glaring  light  and  shouting  crowd, 
And   love-words  in  derision  vowed  ! 
Oh  !    crowned   king  with  starving  eyes, 
And  dying  swain  who  never  dies  ! 
Oh  !    hollow  show  and  empty  heart, 
Great  ministers  of  tragic  art ! 

•''  There's  that  within  which  passeth  show :" 
The  days  they  come,  the  days  they  go. 
We  live  two  lives,  on  either  page — 
The  one  upon  the  painted  stage, 

46 


"JtING   DOWN   THE  DROP."  47 

With  all  the  world  to  hear  and  gaze, 
And  comment  on  each  changing  phase  ; 
The  other,  that  sad  life  within, 
Where  love  may  purify  a  sin. 

Ring  up  the  drop,  the  play  is  on  ; 
Our  hour  of  entrance  comes  anon. 
Choke  down  the  yearnings  of  the  soul ; 

•J  O 

Weak,   doting  fool  !   art  thou  the  whole? 
The  stage   is  waiting,  take  thy  part ; 
Forget  to-night  thou  hast  a  heart ; 
Let  sunshine  break  the  gathering  cloud, 
And  smile  thou  on  the  waiting  crowd. 

O 

Hear  how  their  plaudits  fill   the  scene  : 
Is   not  thy  greedy   ear  full   keen? 
Is   not   a  thousand   shouts   a  halm 
For   all   thy   throbbing   heart's   alarm? 
"To  be  or  not  to  be" — the   screed 
Is   listened   to   with  breathless   heed. 


48  "RING   DOWN   THE  DROP." 

O  painter  with  a  painted  mask  ! 

Is  thy  brain  wandering  from  thy  task? 

Can    it   be    true    that    scores  of  years 

Do    not    suffice    to    murder   tears? 

Can    it    be    true    that    all   of   art 

Has    failed    to    teach    the    human    heart? 

Can   gauds,    and    tricks,    and    shout,    and    glare, 

The    deafening    drum,   the    trumpet's    blare, 

With    all    their    wild,    delirious    din, 

Not    stifle    this    sad    life   within? 

Pah,   man !    the    eager    people  wait ; 
Go    on    with    all    thy   studied    prate. 
Shall    you    not    feed    their    longing    eyes 
Because — because   a   woman    dies? 
What    cares    the    crowd    for    dying    wives, 
For   broken    hearts,    or   blasted    lives ! 
They   paid    their   money,    and — they  say — 
Living    or    dead,    on    with    the    play. 


••/I'AVc;  DOWN  THI?  Ditor:'  49 

What!  staggering,  man?  \vhv,  where's  your  art? 

That    stare    was    good ;    that    tragic    start 

Would    make    your    fortune,    were   it  not 

That    it    rebukes    the    author's    plot. 
"My   wife    is   dying!"    lie    ne'er   wrote 

The  words  that  struggle  in  thy  throat. 
'"Take  back  your  money,"  did  you  say? 
"Ring  down  the  drop — I  cannot  play." 

Ring    down    the    drop ;    the    act    is    o'er ; 
Her    bark    has    touched    the    golden    shore, 
While,    reading    from    life's    inner    page, 
Stands    there    the    actor   of  the    stage ; 
But    not    upon    the    cold,    white    corse 
Falls    there    a    word   of  sad    remorse 
From    all   that    crowd    who    heard    him    say, 
"Ring    down    the   drop — I   cannot    play." 

b  D 


THE  OLDEST  PAUPER  ON  THE 
TOWN. 

A   ND   so  old    Betsey   Green  is   dead ! 

The  oldest  pauper  on  the  town  ; 
She  who  has  eaten  public  bread — 

Bread  of  the    most   unchanging   brown — 
For  six-and-thirty  years. 

Old    Betsey  Green  is  under  sod, 

Mixed    in   with    loads   of  human   clay ; 

No   surpliced    priest    appealed   to    God, 
And   challenged    in    the    light  of  day 
A  waiting    crowd    to    tears. 

They  wrapped    her   lifeless,   withered  form 
In   the    scant    sheet  whereon    she  lay ; 

And   while    her   limbs  were    lithe    and   warm 
They  bore  poor   Betsey   Green    away, 
Lest    she    recover   breath. 

50 


THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON   THE    TOWN.       51 

They  nailed    the  county  coffin  down, 
With    many  jokes   on    her    who    died ; 

And    one   old    pauper    on    the    town, 
And    only   one   old    pauper,    cried — 
From    selfish    fear   of  death. 

A    gravel-wagon    bore    the    load, 

Unwashed,    un swept   from   mud    and   mire  ; 
The    driver  jolting    o'er    the    road, 

Lest    for   the    pittance   of   his    hire 
He    gave    it    too    much    ride. 

And    then   the    three-foot   pauper-grave — 
Unwilling    digged    by   pauper    hands — 

Where   one — half  idiot,    half  knave — 
With   whitened    hair,    in   waiting    stands 
For    Betsey    Green   who    died. 

He    shovels    in    the    frozen    clods. 

lie    chuckles    as    they   rattle    down, 
And    to    himself  he    laughs    and    nods — 

This    oldest    pauper    on    the    town, 
Since    Betsev    Green    is    dead. 


52        THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON   THE    TOWN. 

"  I    can    remember  well."    he   croaks, 
"That    she   was    fair    as    any   queen; 
And   well    to    do   were   all    the    folks 
Who   were   of  kin   with    Betsey   Green 
The    day  that   she  was  wed ; 

"  For    all    the    maids    in    miles    about 

Had    set   their    caps    at    Robert   Green — 
The    comeliest   lad   without  a   doubt, 
The   country-side    had    ever   seen — 
And    she    the    greatest    catch. 

"And    Betsey,   she    had   babes    as    fair 

As    though    she'd    chosen    gifts    for    each  : 
They   had    their    mother's   eyes    and    hair, 
And  Robert's  wheedling  treacherous   speech 
The    selfish,   greedy   wretch ! 

"He    spent   the    gold    her   father   gave; 

He   mortgaged    all    her   broad    farm-lands ; 
She   toiled    and  watched,   to    earn    and    save ; 
He    never    soiled    his    dainty   hands, 
Or   browned    his    handsome    face. 


THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON    THE    TOWN.       53 

"  'Twas   well    for    her,    the    neighbors    said, 

When,    on    one    cold,    December    day, 
They   found    him,    in    a    snow-wreathed    bed, 
Upon    the    ice-bound    public   way, 
Fast    locked    in    Death's    embrace. 

"For    Robert    loved    the    liquor-can 

Too   well    to    save    his    face    or    life : 
The    bloated    semblance   of  a   man 

Was    all    they   brought    the    stricken    wife 
From    where    he    late    had    lain. 

"Year    after    year,    by    day   and    night, 

Her    hands    and    head   were    never    still. 
Her    girls    were    fair,    her    boys   were    bright — 
»        Not    one   of   all    the    six    did    ill, 
In   wedding    or    in    gain. 

"Still,    Betsey    could    not    keep    away 

The    spectre    who    will    never   wait ; 
And    so   one    stern    and    bitter    day, 

She    stood    before    the    workhouse    irate, 

O 

To    beg    for    pauper    fare. 


54       THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON   THE    TOWN. 

"Time  flies!    time  flies!    and    Betsey's   dead! 
And    then,    next    comes    my   turn    to    die. 
A  hundred   years   were   on    her   head- 
Ten   years    the    elder    she    than    I — 
How   soon    shall    I    be    there !" 

Again    he    stamped    the    frozen    ground. 

With    feeble    step    and    vacant   stare ; 
Cast    one    long,    idle    look    around, 

And    left  old    Betsey   lying   there, 
To   wait    her   God    and    crown. 

Ah,   well !    poor   Betsey's  pauper   blood 

Runs    proudly  through    some    purple    veins ; 

No    base  suspicion    taints    its    flood, 

Of  this,   the  worst  of  earthly  stains — 
A  pauper   on    the    town ! 


DROWNED! 

AT  7 HERE    the   mud    lies   black    and    slimy, 

Where    the  waters    sweep    along, 
Where  the  wharfmen,  stout  and  grimy, 
Heave  and  haul  with  many  a  song — 
Heaving  still 

With  a  will, 

Every  coming  dray  to  fill  , 
Hauling,  with  a  laugh  and  shout, 
Bales  of  wondrous  size  about ; 
Straining  to  the  ponderous  weight 
Of  the  good  ship's  wealthy  freight. 

Where  the  wide  and  swelling  river 
Rolls  in  one   perpetual  rhyme  ; 


56  DROWNED! 

Where  the  gracious  winds  deliver 
Glorious  things  from  every  clime — 
Stuffs  to  wear, 
Spices   rare, 

Lie  in  heaps,  or  scent  the  air ; 
Where  the  merchant,  full  of  gold, 
Welcomes  home  the  seamen  bold ; 
Where  each  heart,  its  love  confessed, 
Clasps  the  loved  one  to  the  breast ; 

Where  the  soft-voiced  land-breeze  ever 
Hums  its  tune  by  mast  and  shroud, 
Where  the  rough-tongued  master  never 
Ceases  crying  to  the  crowd — 
"  With  a  haul, 

Lubbers  all, 

Stretch  your  muscles  to  the  fall  !" 
Where  the  never-ceasing  flow, 
Man  above,  and  waves  below, 


DROWNED! 

Night  and  day  pours  on  and  off, 
Mingling  at  the  city  wharf;— 

There  the  vagrant  boy  is  standing 

With  a  ghastly,  frightened  air; 
While  each  lounirer  is  demanding 

O  o 

What  he  sees  to  make  him  stare. 
Still  his  eyes 

Grow  in  size 

As  his  stammering  speech  he  tries  ; 
And   his  linger  points  below, 
Where  the  waters  ebb  and  flow  : 
Still    his  lips  give  forth  no  sound 
Tut  a  hoarsely-whispered   "Drowned!" 

Where  the  planks  are  green   and  rotten, 
Sending  forth   a   sickening  steam, 

Where  the  daylight  is  forgotten, 

And  the  wharf-rat  reigns  supreme — 


DROWNED ! 

In  his  eyes 

Fierce  surprise 

At  his  toothsome  human  prize  : 
Squeaking,  gibbering  forth  a  cry, 
As  the  crash  above  goes  by  ; 
Heeding  neither  man  nor  horse 
In  his  battles  o'er  the  corse. 

With  a  crowbar  to  the  planking, 
With  the  tackle  and  the  fall, 

With  a  heave,  and  with  a  clanking, 
Shivering  hands  give  willing  haul. 
There  he  lies  ! 
Open  eyes 

Turned  toward  the  sunlit  skies ; 

There  he  lies  in  oozing  slime, 

Heedless  of  the  place  and  time ; 

Heedless  of  the  gazing  throng, 

Heedless  of  the  clash  and  song. 


DROWNED!  59 

Sunlight  falls   like  shadows  fading, 

Still  the  song  goes  on  aloud — 
Still  with  gaze  that  seems  upbraiding 

Stares  the  dead  man  on  the  crowd. 
Hours  fly 

Swiftly  by ; 

Sunset  darkens  on  the   sky, 
Ere   the   lingering  men    and   boys 
Hear  the  dead- cart's  rumbling  noise 
O'er  the   distant  stone-clad  ground, 
Coming   for  the   man   that's   "  Drowned." 

Had  his   limbs  been   clothed   in   scarlet, 

Were   his   linen   rich   and   rare, 
Had    he  been  the  veriest  varlet, 
Tainting   God's  own  perfumed   air, 
Would    he   lie, 

While   hours  fly, 
Staring   sightless  to  the  sky? 


60  DROWNED! 

Would  the   crowd  so  careless  stand 
If  a  gem  gleamed  on  his  hand? 
Would  they  sing  and  laugh  around, 
Were  he  better  dressed  when  "Drowned?" 


I 


THE    SKATERS. 

STOOD  on  the  frozen  river, 
Watching  the  skaters  go  by  ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily 

Under  the  cold  gray  sky  ; 
Lazily  swinging  their  way  along, 
Cheerfully   singing  some   snatches  of  song, 
Skimming  like  birds  on  the  face  of  the   waves, 
Swimming  like  fish  in  their  deep-sea  caves. 

I   saw  not  an   eye  but  sparkled, 

Not  a  step  but  was  careless   and  free  ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily, 

And  as  happy  as  happy  could  be  ; 
Carefully  staying  the  speed  in  their  pace, 
Warily  weighing  the  chance  in  a  race, 


62  THE   SKATERS. 

Winging    their    way   through    the    change   in    the 

throng, 
Singing  the  score  of  the  SKATER'S  SONG. 


Over  the  ice,  like  the  swallows,  I  fly, 
With  light  in  my  heart  and  light  in  my  eye ; 
The  swiftest  of  runners  their  tardiness  feel 
When    my    feet    are    encased    in    the     glistening 
steel. 

Away  I   dash, 

Like  the  lightning's  flash, 
Or  the  racer  under  the  rider's  lash. 

Eyes  that  look  out  from  the  loveliest  face 
Laugh  at  my  follies  or  smile  at  my  grace ; 
The  life  of  my  blood  courses  up  to  the  brain, 
And  the  days  of  my  boyhood  come  to  me  again. 
I  look  not  back, 

Though  the  ice  may  crack, 
For  a  hundred  come  like  wolves  on  my  track. 


THE    SKATERS  63 

Up  to  the   north,   in  the  face   of  the   gale, 
Breathless  we  turn,    spreading  out  for  the  sail; 
A  fleet  of  gay   steamers  rush   down  on  the  wind, 
Leaving    Time   and   the   sluggards   completely   be 
hind  ; 

For  life  but  waits, 

At  Pleasure's  gold  gates, 
For  the  hours  we   spend  on  the   glorious   skates. 


I   stood  on  the   frozen  river, 

Watching  the  skaters  go  by ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily, 

Under  the   cold  gray   sky ; 
Joyfully  greeting  the   calls  of  a  friend, 
Heartily  meeting  the  jibes  they  may  send, 
Kissing  the  lips  of  the  loved  ones  that  stay, 
Missing  the  lips   of  the   loved  ones   away. 

There  was   one   in  the   midst  of  the  skaters, 
A  beautiful  boy  of  ten, 


64  THE   SKATERS. 

With  a  dreamy,  dark-eyed  beauty, 

Who  flitted  among  the  men ; 
Laughingly   winning  his  way  along, 
Scarcely  beginning  to  feel   himself  strong, 
Stumbling  and  catching  his  step  from  a  fall, 
Tumbling  and  rolling   about  like   a  ball. 

There  was  one  in  the  crowd  of  watchers 

Who  watched  the  boy  in  his  play, 
Whose  eye  was   ever  upon  him 

Whenever  he  wandered  away ; 
Smilingly  gazing  at  each  new   start, 
Silently  praising  the   child  in   her  heart, 
Willing  to  follow  the  steps  of  her  boy, 
Filling   her  soul  with  his  frolicsome  joy. 

I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  skaters, 
And   looked   at  it  all   as   a  dream ; 

But  my  heart  was  suddenly  wakened 
With  a  single  death-like  scream ; 


THE   SKATERS.  65 

Fearfully  filling  the  chill   winter  air, 
Instantly   stilling   the  song  that  was  there, 
Crushing  the  light  from  a  thousand  of  eyes, 
Hushing   in  terror  a  thousand  of  si^hs. 

O  Cj 

Where  is  the  dark-eyed  boy? 

And   the   ever-watching   mother? 
A  shrieking  woman  clings  to   her  waist, 
And    her  hands  are   held   by   another ; 
Terribly   standing,  in  accents  wild, 
Idly  demanding  her  beautiful  child, 
Staring  with  eyes  in  a  fire-like  glow, 

Tearing1  the  lace  from  her  bosom  of  snow. 
t> 

There  is   running  to  and   fro, 

And  the  talking  of  many  men  ; 
But  an   hour  goes  by  before  they  find 

The  beautiful  boy  of  ten  ; 
Quietly  raising  him  under  their  breath, 
Earnestly   praising    his  beauty  in   death, 


66  THE   SKATERS. 

Putting  his  limbs  in  a  natural  way, 
Shutting  his  eyes  from  the  light  of  the  day. 

But  the  mother  has  broken  her  guard, 
And  lies  on  the  breast  of  her  child ; 
She  is  kissing  the  pallid,  oozing  lips 

That  the  waters  have  defiled ; 
Gloomily  pressing  the  baby-like  corse, 
Fondly  caressing,  and  mourning   her  loss, 
Trying  to  waken  the  voice  of  the  dead, 
Crying  to  God  for  the  soul  that  is  fled. 

She  has  raised  the  babe  in  her  arms, 

Rejecting  all  offer  of  aid ; 
His  arm   falls  over  her  shoulder, 

And    his  head  on  her  bosom  is  laid ; 
Wearily  bearing    her  burden  of  death, 
Tenderly  caring  as  though  he  had   breath, 
Creeping  along  with  a  staggering  pace, 
Weeping,   and    kissing  the  little   pale  face. 


THE   SKATERS.  67 

I    stand   on  the  frozen   river, 

But  the  skaters  no   longer  go  by  ; 
They  are  gathered  in  groups  at  the  landings, 

Under  the  cold   gray  sky  ; 
Woefully  talking  of  what  they   had   seen, 
Steadily  walking  where  late  they  had  been, 
Running  with  terror  at  every  sound, 
Shunning  the  spot  where  the  boy  was  drowned. 


GIVE    ME    DRINK. 

r  I  ^HERE'S    my  money  ;   give   me  drink  ! 

Fire  to  feed  my  hungry  blood, 
Drown  my  slightest  wish  to  think : 

Give  me  drink  ! 

Drench  me  in  the  burning  flood, 
Until  life  and  soul  are  numb, 
Until  every  pulse  is  dumb, 

Give  me   drink ! 

There's  my  clothing,  there's  my  food  ; 
Strip   my  limbs  and  leave  them  bare, 
What  care  I  how  people  stare? 

Give  me  drink  ! 

They  know  not  the  fearful  thirst 
Of  what  they  call  the  cup  accursed — 
The  cup  in  which  my  brain's  immersed  ; 

Give  me  drink  ! 

68 


GIVE  ME  DRINK.  69 

There's   my   children,   give   me   drink  ! 

Make   me   drunken  in   my  heart ; 
I   would  sever  every   link, 

Ere  my  cup  and  I  should   part : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
There  is  no  nepenthe  here, 
Unhallowed   by   a  woman's  tear, 
Unflavored  with  a  wise   man's  sneer ; 
Their  notice   makes  the  draught  more  dear. 

Give  me  drink  ! 
There's  my  health  and  peace  of  mind, 

I  will   give  it  all  to  thee, 
I  will  throw  my  life  behind, 

I  will   crouch  upon   my  knee  : 

Give  me   drink  ! 

There's  my  wife — my  wedded  wife  ! — 
Once   I   loved   her   as   my   life  : 

What  is  wife   and  life  to   me? 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Here's  my  standing  as  a  man  : 


70  GIVE  ME   DRINK. 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Here's  my  Christian  love  and   hope  : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Can   I  bear  the   social   ban? 
I   can   do  what  others   can : 
I   can  crawl,   and  steal,   and  kill, 
So  the   draught  be   at  my  will — 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Here's  my  faith  in   all  mankind : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
I  scatter  it  upon  the  wind — 

Give  me  drink  ! 

And    here — oh,   here's  my  faith  in  God ; 
I  will  not  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
I'll   trample   Heaven  iron-shod : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  brain, 

I  will   give  thee  wealth  and  fame  ; 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  heart, 
I  will  give   thee  spotless  name  : 


GIVE  ME  DRINK.  71 

Give  me  drink  ! 

Make  me  drunken  night  and  day  ; 
I   will   give  my  soul   away, 
God,   and  peace,   and  child,   and  wife, 
Love,   and  faith,   and  hope,   and   life  ! 

Give  me  drink  I 


"IT     WILL     ALL     BE     RIGHT     IN 
THE     MORNING." 

T     STOOD  by  the  couch  of  my  darling, 

And  watched  the  light  in  her  eyes ; 
I  held  her  fevered  fingers, 

And  echoed  her  softest  sighs. 
But  the  time  wore  wearily  onward, 

Till  it  marked  the  sunset  hour, 
And  the  light  went  out  from  my  darling's  eyes, 
As  the  bloom  goes  out  from  the  flower. 

Ah  !   then  with  a  sickening  tremor, 

I  watched  for  the  soothing  balm 
That  should  come  at  the  hands  of  the  healer, 

And  shield  my  love  from  harm. 
It  came  at  the  hour  of  sunset ; 

A  grave  and  an  aged  man, 

72 


"/r   WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING."  73 

Who  held  the  gift  of  a  healing  hand, 
As  far  as  a  mortal  can. 

lie  counted  her  pulses  that  fluttered 

Like  wild  imprisoned  birds  ; 
And  then,   with  a  glance  to  heaven, 

He  spake  these  cheering  words  : 
"  It  will   all   be   right   in   the   morning." 

Oh  !    skill  of  a  learned   leech, 
Those  words,  to  my  worldly  hearing, 

What   a   world   of   hope   they   reach  ! 

"It  will   all   be    right   in   the   morning!" 
I    murmured   them   through   the   night, 

As  I  watched  her  heavily  breathing, 
And   longed    for   the    coming   light. 

It  came   with  its  golden  sunshine, 
And   I  turned   to    my    darling's   bed, 

To   kiss    her   lips    as    a    welcome, 

But   I    found    my    loved   one   dead. 

7 


74  "IT  WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING." 

Dead  !     Dead  with  the   morning's   coming, 

Dead !     Dead   with  the   words  on    my   ear, 
' '  It   will   all   be   right   in   the   morning  !" 

And   now  but  her  form  is   here. 
O    heart,   in  thy   wild  resistance 

At  the  stern  decree  of  the  Lord, 
Rebelling  to   part  with   an   atom 

From   out  of  thine  earthly   hoard  ! 

"It  will   all  be   right  in  the   morning!" 

It  was  truth   the   wise   leech   spoke, 
And  in   the   heavenly  sunshine 

My  darling  one   awoke — 
Awoke  from   a  dream  of  sorrow, 

To  dwell  in  the  far-off  lands, 
Where,   if  all  be  right  in  the   morning, 

Once   more   I   shall  clasp   her  hands. 


GOD  BLESS  YOUR  BEAUTIFUL 
HAND! 

r  I  ^IIE    hand   of   my   lady   is   soft   and  white  ; 

For  the   sculptor's   skill   a  test ; 
The   eyes   of  my   lady   are   deep  and   bright, 
And   her   lips   with   kindness   blest. 

She    moves   with   the   grace    of  a   crowned   queen, 

Who   walks   in   a   loving   land, 
But   of  all   her   charms   the   world   has  seen, 

There    is   none   like   her  beautiful   hand. 

And   I    marveled   much,    for   many   a   day, 
How   the   world   so   blind   could    be, 

That   it   cast   all   her   other   charms   away, 
And   only   the    hand   could   see  ; 

75 


76        GOD  BLESS    TOUR  BEAUTIFUL   HAND  I 

Until,   as  I   sought  a  lonely   street, 

One  bitter  December   eve, 
I   heard  the   fall  of  my  lady's  feet, 

And   a   sad  voice   moan   and    grieve. 

And   then   I   saw   her  muffled  form 

Draw  nigh  to   a   sightless   elf, 
And   about  it  wrap,   both   close   and  warm, 

The   shawl  she   had   worn   herself. 

Then    bending    her   head  with   a   nameless  grace 
To  the  beggar's  outstretched   palms, 

She  silently  gazed  in  the   hungered  face, 
And  gave  it  a  queenly   alms. 

The  old   child   caught  at  the  fingers  white, 

As  though  for   a   fierce   demand, 
And  said,  "Oh,  what  would  I  give  for  my  sight! 

God  bless  your  beautiful  hand !" 


GOD   BLESS    TOUR  BEAUTIFUL   HAND!       77 

Since   then   I    marvel   no   more   if  the   thought 
Should   go   through   the   length   of  the   land, 

And    all    that   is    proud    of    the    earth    shall    have 

sought 
The   charm   of  my   lady's   hand. 

7* 


FARMER    BROWN. 

/^VLD   Farmer  Brown,    with   ruddy   face, 

Sat  stretched  before  the  chimney-place ; 
He   sat   and   watched  the  crackling   logs, 
The  purring  cat,   the  dreaming  dogs, 
That,   like   himself,   were  stretched   at  ease, 
Safe   sheltered  from   the   chill   night-breeze, 
And  with  the  freedom   comfort  brings, 
The  farmer  thought  these   selfish  things : 

"  Let  foolish  people  grieve   and   sigh 
At  care    that  does   not  come   anigh ; 
I'm   not  so  weak  to   wail   at  what, 
However  bad,   concerns  me   not. 
My  barns   are  full   with  golden    grain, 
My  limbs  are   stout  and   free  from   pain, 

78 


FARMER   BROWN.  79 

And   out,    as   far   as   eye   can   see, 
The   well-kept   fields   belong   to   me. 

"  My  appetite  is  always  sound 
Whene'er  the  dinner-hour  comes  round  ; 
And  faith,   betwixt  the  wife  and  me 
There's  not  much  difference,   as  I  see. 
She's  hearty,   merry,   stout  and  fair, 
No    touch  of  silver  in  her  hair ; 
She  grows,   as  years  pass  swift  away, 
Much  better-looking  every  day. 

"  I  read  of  cities  lost  and  won, 
Of  deeds  of  bloody  valor  done, 
Of  fearful  battles,   fought  in  vain, 
With  scores  of  thousands  for  the   slain  ; 
Of  ravaged  homes,   insulted  wives, 
And  children  fleeing  for  their  lives. 

O 

But  why  should   I   repine   at  these 
When  they  do  not  disturb  mine  ease? 


So  FARMER  BROWN. 

"The  blood  shed  in  these  fearful  fights 
Does  not  disturb  my  sleep  of  nights ; 
The  thousands  that  they  choose  to  slay 
Take  not  my  appetite  away. 
This  mug  of  cider  by  my  side 
Does  not  across  my  palate  glide 
Less  smoothly  when  the  clash  of  war 
Comes  faint  and  harmless  from  afar. 

"  Then  why  should  I  repine,  who  ne'er 
Am  troubled  with  a  single  care? 
Stop — let  me  think  !     Ah,  yes,  with  one- 
My  wandering  Will,  my  truant  son — 
He  whom  we  loved,  our  darling  child, 
So  handsome,  kind,   and  yet  so  wild  ! 
A  word,  regretted  ere  its  birth, 
Sent  Will  a  wanderer  o'er  the  earth. 

"  If  Will  were  but  at  home  again, 
The  world  might  war  for  me  in  vain. 


FARMER   BROWN.  Si 

A  knock  !    Who's  that?    Come  in?    Ah,  Jones  !" 
The  former  cried,   in  cheery  tones. 
"Walk  in!     Sit  down!     Here,  wife,  a  light! 
What  brought  you  out  this  stormy  night? 
Why,   man,  your  face  is  stretched  as  long 
As  any  tramping  beggar's  song." 

"  Ah,   Neighbor   Brown,   it  grieves  me  sore 

To  enter  thus  your  welcome  door. 

The  news  I  bear  is  very  sad  : 

Your  son—      "  "  Good  Lord,  what  of  the  lad?" 
"Your  son  was  killed  at  Shiloh  fight; 

He  died  while   battling  for  the  right. 

So,  Neighbor  Brown,  bow  to  God's  will ; 

He  knows  best  when  to  save  or  kill." 

Poor  Farmer  Brown,   with  starting  eyes, 

Stood  now  erect.     With  mournful  cries, 

"O  Lord!"  he  said,   "what  have  I  done, 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  only  son?" 
P 


82  FARMER  BROWN. 

And  then  a  something  whispered  loud, 
"Thou  selfish  man,  whom  God  endowed, 
Take  to  thy  heart  this  lifelong  blow, 
And  learn  to  share  thy  fellow's  woe  !" 


THE    PATTER    OF    LITTLE    FEET, 


/^~\VER    my  head,   in  the  morning  early, 

I   heard  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
Rising  above  the  hurly-burly 

Out  in  the  fast-awakening  street. 

O 

I  like  my  nap  in  the  morning  early  — 
That  drowsy,   sleeping,   waking  time  — 

And  am  apt  to  give  way  to  a  touch  of  the  surly 
With  one  who  breaks  on  its  soothing  rhyme, 

O  •/ 

And  so   this  morn,   when   I   heard  the  clatter, 

I  turned  uneasily  in   my  bed, 
And    bothered  my  brain  to  guess  the  matter 

With  the  little   ones  pattering  over  my   head. 
My  nap  was  gone,   and  in  humor  sulky 

I   stretched   a  loud   and  imperious  yawn, 

83 


84  THE  PATTER    OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

And  then,  with  a  word  both  big  and  bulky, 
I  blessed  the  hour  those  babes  were  born. 

With  a  knitted   brow  and  a  hasty  toilet, 

I  made  up  my  mind  as  I  mounted   the    stairs, 
Whatever  the  fun,  I  would  quickly  spoil  it 

By  coming  upon  them  unawares. 
I  never  had  seen  my  top-floor  neighbors  ; 

This  only  I  knew,  that  the  tidy  house, 
Save  and  except  for  these  infantine  labors, 

Was  silent  and  still  as  a  baby-mouse. 

I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  waited ; 

The  noise  was  hushed  to  a  whispered  word ; 
The  patter  of  little  feet  abated, 

And  a  tiny  hand  on  the  knob  I  heard. 
The  door,  with  a  labored  opening,  started, 

And   full  in  its  light  a  vision  appeared, 
That  carried  my  heart  to  the  days  departed, 

And   the  one  to  whom  it  was  ever  endeared. 


THE   PATTER    OF  LITTLE   FEET.  85 

Oh,   vision  of  life  in  the  darkened  palace 

Where  I  have  enshrined  the  one  of  my  love  ! 
What  vestige  remained  of  the  wrath  and  malice 

I  threatened  to  wreak  on  the  noise  above? 
What  memoried  thought  is  the  one  I  am  meeting? 
What   hands  are    they  stretched    as  I  entered 

the  door? 

"  Are  you  my  papa?"  was  the  baby-like  greeting  ; 
"Are    you    my    papa,     come    home    from    the 
war  ?" 

"No,   darling,"  I   said,   with   a  choking  emotion, 
"  I    am    not   your    papa,    come    home    from    the 

war ; 

I   am   only   a  waif  on   the   fathomless   ocean, 
With    no    one    to    love    me    the    weary    world 

o'er." 

"With  no  one  to  love  you?''  the  baby   replies; 
"I    will    love    you    myself — you    shall    be    my 
papa." 


86  THE  PATTER    OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

And  I  caught  the  sweet  child  with  the  wondering 

eyes 
Up  close  to  my  breast  where  the  memories  are. 

Oh,  where  was  my  heart  as  I  lay  in  bed  dozing, 
And   the    noise  overhead  could  not  quicken   its 

beat? 

The  chambers  of  memory  surely  were  closing 
When    no    entrance    was    found    for   those    dear 

little  feet; 
For  had  I  the  riches  we  read  of  in  story, 

I    would    give    up    the    whole    to    sweep    away 

years — 
To  bring   back  the  pleasure,  the  wealth   and  the 

glory, 
The  patter  of  dear  little  feet  to  my  ears. 


OLD    NEWS. 

/^~\II!    grandfather,   grandfather,  listen  to  me! 
The    most   wonderful    news    has    come    over 

the   sea — 

The  most  glorious  news  of  the  battles  afar, 
Where    a    million    of    men    have    been    armed    for 

the  war. 

From  the  field  of  Magenta  the  Austrians  fled, 
And    a    score    of    their    thousands    were    left    with 

the   dead. 

O'er  the  slopes  of  Palestro  the  conquerors  bore 
The     eagles    of    France     through    a     torrent    of 

gore  ; 
And     the     Austrian     legions    were    swept    in     the 

gale, 
As  the  husk  is   struck  off  by   a  blow  of  the   flail. 


88  OLD  NEWS. 

Oh !     grandfather,     grandfather,     read    the    great 

news ; 

It  will  tell  you  the  chances  for  glory  you  lose ; 
It  will  tell  of  the  joy  for  the  victories  won, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  nations  for  deeds  that  were 

done. 

Dear  grandfather,  why  don't  you  hurry  away, 
With  your  bright-bladed  sword,  to  the  midst  of  the 

fray  ? — 
That   bright-bladed  sword  which  you  said,  in  my 

hand, 
Should  some  day  strike  blows  for  my  own  native 

land? 

Oh  !    grandfather,  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be 
Could  we  both  but  have  been  in  those  fights  over 

sea  ! 

There  were   flashes  of  light   in  the   grandfather's 

eyes, 
And  a  chuckle  that  mingled  itself  with  his  sighs, 


OLD  NEWS.  89 

As  he  shook  his  white  head,  with  a  half-smothered 
groan, 

And  knocked  out  his  pipe  on  the  brown  lintel- 
stone. 

Ah  !  boy,  it  is  one  thing  to  strike  for  our 
lives, 

For  the  land  that  we  live  in,  our  children  and 
wives, 

And   another  to  battle  with   halters  in  sight, 

Unknowing  the   quarrels   that  drive  us  to  fight. 

To   cut  and  to   slash   at  a  despot's  command 

Is  not  fighting,  my  boy,  for  your  own  native 
land. 

The     echo     that    comes     from    the     boom    of    the 

gun 

Is  lost  in  the   shouts   when   the   battle  is  done  ; 
But    the    groans   of  the    wounded    and    shrieks    of 

the  slain 
Will  be  heard  in  the  echoes  again  and  again ; 


9°  OLD  NEWS. 

They  will   sound  in  the  hearts,   and  be  answered 

with  tears, 
When   the   field    where   they    fell    is    grown    over 

with  years. 
The     news      of     a     fight     is     like     fresh-opened 

wine — 
You  must  quench  all  your  thirst  while  its  bubbles 

still  shine  ; 
You   must   drink   wrhile   the    perfume    is    fresh   on 

the  breath, 
For    the     dregs     are    a    mixture    of    sorrow    and 

death. 

I    fought,   my  brave   boy,   when   to   skulk  were   a 

shame 
That   could    never   be    wiped    from    the   line    of  a 

name ; 

I  fought  when  refusal  so  blackened  the  youth 
That  his   grandchild  still  blushes  when  told  of  the 

truth  ; 


OLD   NEWS.  91 

When    the    white    hair    of    age    marched    proudly 

between 

The  iron-limbed  man  and  the  boy  of  fourteen  ; 
When  the   crack  of  our  rifles  on  Lexington   plain 
Was  echoed,   and  echoed,   and  echoed   again : 
There    were    echoes,    my   boy,    from    the    hills   to 

the  sea, 
In    the    hearts    of    a    million    who    longed    to    be 

free. 

With  us  there  was  nothing  of  glitter  and  gold — 

There  was  squalor  and  rags,  and  starvation  and 
cold  : 

There  were  barefooted  men,  who  were  tracked 
by  their  blood 

On  the  stone-jagged  road  or  the  icy-bridged  flood  ; 

There  were  men  who  had  sworn  by  their  foe- 
ravaged  lands, 

By  their  blood-darkened  hearths,  with  their  swords 
in  their  hands — 


92  OLD  NEWS. 

Who    had    sworn    that    their    kindred    should    see 

them  no  more 
Till    the   land  should  be  free   from  the  curse  that 

it  bore. 
Those  were  times  when  the  battle-field,  gory  and 

red, 
Bloomed  with  flowers  perpetual  over  the  dead. 

The  news  of  those  battles  will  never  grow  old — 
They  grow  by  the  telling,  a  thousand  times  told  ; 
But  of  fights  that  are  fought  for  glory  alone, 
Ere  the  fighting  is  over  the  glory  is  flown. 
It  is  dimmed  on  the  crests  of  the  conquering  hosts 
By  the  pale,  bloody  hands  of  a  legion  of  ghosts ; 
It  is  washed  from  the  blades  of  victorious  chiefs 
By    the     heart-sweating     tears    of    a    million    of 

griefs. 

Yes  !   even,  my  boy,  from  the  head  of  a  king 
It    is     trampled     and     crushed     like     a     valueless 


OLD   NEWS.  93 

When  the  battle  is  over,  the  scarlet  and  gold 
Shall  speedily  rot  in  the  blood-nurtured  mould  ; 
The  steed  and  his  rider  shall  stay  where  they  fall, 
And  the  stout  idle  worm  shall  be  master  of  all ; 
The  rains  shall  wash    down  all    the  proud    clotted 

gore, 
And  the  winds  bear  away  the  last  shreds  of  the 

war. 
Yet,   unless   they   have    stricken    for    freedom    and 

right, 

The  wails  of  the  dying  shall  fade  on  the  night ; 
But  if  God  shall   be  with   them,  their   hearts  shall 

be  bold, 
And    the    news    of    their   battle    shall    never   grow 

old. 


MISSING:     PRIVATE    WILLIAM 
SMITH. 

OERGEANT!    enter  on  your  roll, 

"Missing — Private  William  Smith." 
Death  is  but  a  passing  dream, 

Life  a  false  and  shadowy  myth. 
Comrades,  close  your  gaping  ranks  ! 

He  was  of  the  first  platoon ; 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Doubtless  will  be  heard  of  soon. 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Led  the  charge  that  turned  the  day ; 

Through  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
Step  by  step,  he  clove  his  way. 

When  I  last  saw  Private  Smith 

He  was  grimed  with  smoke  and  gore ; 

94 


M7SS7JVG:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH.         95 

What  if  Private  William  Smith 
Should   be  heard  of  never  more? 

Comrades  !    soldiers  should  not  mourn. 

He  was   every  inch   a  man  ! 
Men  have  fallen  in  the  fight 

Ever  since  the  world  began. 
Yet  I  would  I   knew  for  truth, 

Now  the  fight  is  past  and  done — 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one. 

Would  I  knew  that  clanking  chains 

Bound  his  iron  muscles  o'er  ! 
Would  I  knew  a  prison  wall 

Held  his  limbs,  though  wounded  sore  ! 
Would   that  missing  Private  Smith 

May  be  heard  of  once  again  ! 
Wounded,   captive,   so  that  he 

Be  not  of  the  nameless  slain. 


96        MISSING:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one  ; 
She  was  once  a  love  of  mine, 

Ere  my  life  had  scarce  begun. 
I  should  hardly  like  to  speak 

To  her  of  so  strange  a  myth, 
When  the  war  is  over,  as 

Missing  Private  William  Smith. 


THE    END. 


CAXTON     PRESS     OF 
3HERMAN    &    CO.,    PHILADELPHIA. 


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